


A Dark Alley and a Bad Idea

by Dizzydodo



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Courtship, Enthusiastic Consent, Hurt Matt Murdock, Kink Meme, M/M, Mobster Matt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2018-10-01 12:02:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10189499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dizzydodo/pseuds/Dizzydodo
Summary: A fill for a prompt from the Daredevil Kinkmeme:When Fisk says jump, Matt asks "how high?" He really has no will and does everything Fisk commands. During one mission, Matt is severely injured and is found by Foggy who helps him. Matt, whose whole world is nothing but violence, is dumbstruck by this kindness.





	1. The Dark Alley

**Author's Note:**

> Link to the prompt (and the first couple parts) is here: http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/1742.html?thread=3979470#cmt3979470

He was bleeding out.

Murdock knew this the same way he knew that not two blocks away his mark was combing another alley, looking for some sign of the man that had jumped him not half an hour ago, and that there were three police cars Fisk had to have dispatched four minutes away from his current location. He lay still, focusing solely on his breathing and trying in vain to lessen the agony of a dozen minor cuts and one seeping gash across his back but his senses being what they were, the effort was entirely wasted.

A rib was fractured, every breath leaving him with a murmured curse, every squirm enough to remind him that what strength he had left was rapidly depleting. Almost he wished he could just lose consciousness and let fate take its course, but some dogged ounce of persistence made him grit his teeth and clench his fists, clamping down on his tongue every time sleep beckoned. For them to be here so quickly Fisk would have had to send his lapdogs the very minute Matt had failed to check in.

With luck they would be the first to find him- he might yet make it out alive.

He wasn't looking forward to it. The hospital was the very last place they would think to take him, and neither Fisk nor Wesley saw a need for such luxuries as painkillers. It was nothing Matt had not faced before, and nothing he wasn't prepared to face again, but the routine of it was beginning to grate on his nerves.

His mark had moved on, growing closer now, only a new set of footsteps approached- long stride, heavy step but not so heavy as Fisk, a rapid clip that suggested haste. Likely a man, though what he was doing in Hell's Kitchen at this hour of the night was anyone's guess and none of Matt's concern. He didn't dare move, it might attract attention he did not want or need. The sirens were closer and-

And the inconvenient owner of those footsteps had turned the corner, approaching the apartment complex that bordered him on the left. Only the man didn't stop at the entryway to climb the steps, blundering into the alley instead with what sounded like a garbage bag, of all things.

_Shit._

"Shit."

Always such a pleasure to have this thoughts parroted back at him, Murdock thought wryly. Though at least this one's voice was pleasant to the ear, sometimes he had to grit his teeth against the underlying rough growl in his employer's tones.

"Hey, are you all right?" Trembling fingers plucked at the fabric of Matt's shirt, a sharp intake of breath indicating he had found one of the cuts.

_The hell does it look like?_ He didn't voice the thought aloud, too busy focusing on holding to a last vestige of conscious. The sirens rushed past the area where he was concealed, that hope dashed to pieces. It looked like he was going to be left at the mercy of strangers, and bitter experience said that was a quality in exceedingly short supply.

A warm finger pressed into the skin of his throat, hand fumbling for a wrist he didn't have the will to yank defensively away.

"Fuck. All right, I've got this-" Fumbling, the rustle of fabric and unmistakable sound of a phone unlocking.

"You can't call 911." Matt's voice sounded harsh even to his own ears, enough to make his would-be rescuer leap with surprise.

"Oh thank God you're awake. Sorry to disappoint, but you need help like ten minutes ago. Not kidding." There was a tremor in his voice, underlaid with sharp relief. Either the man was no kind of medical professional or Matt was in far better condition than every sense told him he was, either way he tried to draw reassurance from that relief. The tinny sound of a ring on the other end of the line gave him just the shot of adrenaline he needed to reach out and grasp the man's wrist. He couldn't tighten his fingers to stop him, they were cold and rapidly losing even the ability to curl.

"Don't."

"Don't ask me that, please. You need help and I can't just-"

Murdock didn't hear the rest. Whatever fragile claim he had on consciousness fled, leaving him every bit as helpless as he had feared.

Foggy swore, hardly noticing when the operator picked up on the third ring: "911 emergency services."

He vacillated for a split second between damning the consequences and requesting an ambulance or hanging up. Unthinkingly he reached out a free hand to pull away the dark cloth covering the man's face from head to nose. How the hell could he see in that? Had to be terrifying caught in the dark-

"Sir? Ma'am?"

"Sorry. Pocket dial."

He hung up before he could think better of it, hesitating for all of a second before dialing another number. This time he was only halfway through the first ring before it picked up.

"Do you know what time it is? This had better be a matter of life and death or I will kill you my-"

"It is. I need your help, Claire."

"Where are you? What do you need?" The last of her fatigue was immediately banished, replaced with audible concern.

"My apartment building, and I could really use a miracle." He stripped out of his coat, trying not to think of past due bills and mounting debt. His suit had not come cheap and it was the only one he had, but he would count this sacrifice cheap at twice the cost if it saved the man's life. He pressed it to the worst of the cuts, wincing at how the flesh gave beneath the pressure, blood soaking the fabric through.

"I'm in an alley with a guy I think is bleeding to death. There's so much blood here, Claire." The reality of it struck him then, the smells and sights all blending together until he was dizzy with it. Foggy swallowed down the nauseous feeling, deliberately shifting the focus of his attention back to the man's face and away from the mess of his body. Bruises were coloring his cheekbones, running up around his right eye. Fractured orbital or just a deep bruise?

"Foggy, _Foggy_ , pay attention."

"What? Sorry, distracted."

"I'm on my way to you, but I need you to tell me everything. Starting with why the hell you called me and not an ambulance."

The short answer was that he still didn't know, but hopefully the long answer would keep him distracted long enough for the cavalry to arrive.

"I was taking my trash down-"

"At three thirty in the morning in Hell's Kitchen? Do you have a death wish?"

"Not funny now." Yet he still managed a smile, one born more of growing fear than any amusement.

"Right, sorry. Keep talking."

Pressing down for all he was worth, thinking half-remembered prayers from childhood, Foggy did.

 

 

Scent was the first sense to return, and for that Matt was grateful because it delayed the pain for one precious second. There was spice in the air, dried chili pepper, a hint of lemon and the cloying scent of fish. He snorted softly, ribs protesting even that small movement with a sharp creak. Then all the pain flooded back, lines of fire racing down his back and stomach, sunk deep into his side, the dull ache of bruises covering what felt like every inch of him, and a pounding headache at the base of his skull that was mild by comparison.

He was lying on his back, propped up slightly by a pillow whose rough cotton abraded his already damaged skin. The couch felt like imitation leather to his questing fingertips, smooth and slippery. The iron of blood was replaced by the sting of antiseptic and the pungent odor of the alley faded to a mere memory beneath a vaguely floral scent that was more chemical than nature. This was not a hospital, neither any of Fisk's safe-houses that Murdock knew of, ergo-

"You're awake. I admit there were a few times this afternoon I wasn't sure that was going to be the case. Let me be the first to say I am really glad you're not a corpse." Forced humor couldn't mask the genuine warmth in the familiar voice. It was the man from the alley, sounding considerably more lighthearted. That taken together with his wakefulness was enough to convince Matt that his condition was at least stable.

"So am I." It was impossible not to respond in the face of such determined cheer.

"So, your eyes are open, your pupils aren't dilating and you're not freaking out. But you weren't freaking out the other night either and I was, so I guess I just need to know if this is one of those times where I should be freaking out or if you're good." He trailed off, finally running out of breath so that his reluctant patient could get a word in edgewise.

"I'm blind."

"As in blinded the other night or this is just your average Tuesday?"

"I lost a day."

"I'll take that for my answer." Reluctant amusement, genuine this time. Matt snorted before he could catch himself.

"Seeing as I've officially made you laugh, and kudos to me because I don't even get how you're breathing, do you have a name? I need something to call you besides 'the guy on my couch'."

"Murdock. You?" He didn't care, couldn't care, and it had to be an aftereffect of the trauma that he had offered his real name so quickly. Matt swore under his breath, weighing every option before him, certain that none of them were ideal but…

This man, this _stranger_ had saved his life, had taken him into his home without knowing what the hell he had dragged in. The fact that the man probably would have left him to die if he had known who exactly employed his stray rescue was beside the point. The point was, he owed a debt.

"Matt Murdock." He would be fortunate if Fisk chose not to take his head over this. Matt still remembered the unfortunate Russian; it had been a gruesome business, even by his standards.

"Foggy Nelson. Is someone looking for you, can I call anyone? Speaking of, why not 911? Legal trouble?" Laughter, "Tell me you're not some sort of mobster."

Matt recognized it for sarcasm, managed a bitter and halfhearted laugh in return. "No. Nothing so dramatic. Hate hospitals."

"Sure." Foggy didn't believe him, that much was obvious. And what was his name? It couldn't possibly be "Foggy", and there was something familiar about that "Nelson". It was a name he had heard before though he couldn't place where-

"Never mind. Sorry for the interrogation. Claire said you needed to sleep this off and I could go on forever-"

For the second time in as many days Matt drifted off to the sound of the stranger's voice.

 

* * *

 

 

His second awakening was kinder than the first. Gone was the rough pillow and slick couch, replaced with a bed that was at least marginally more comfortable. The sheets were linen and still a torment to his overstimulated nerves, but this was not his home and he could not expect the familiar whisper of thousand thread count sheets any more than he had a right to expect Fisk's mercy when he finally returned empty-handed.

Whatever good this time to heal did him he was certain would be undone once Fisk realized the Serb was still alive.

The scents that reached his nose were a little more subtle: artificial vanilla rather than the offending floral scent, and fabric softener rising from the sheets around him. A little dust, and still that niggling scent of lemon citrus. It smelled clean, soothing even.

Voices washed over him in a low background hum; the first was the voice from the alley, the second that of a woman he hadn't heard before. Judging from the increased use of sibilants and the stress that made their voices rise incrementally even as they obviously tried to keep silent it wasn't a friendly conversation. He tensed and shifted, prepared to bolt; micro-fractures protesting his flight. Matt determinedly shifted his thoughts away from what it would do to his body, listening for the thinner silence that always indicated a window.

There was no way of knowing what floor he was on or if the fire escape was near, but he had no intention of being found here in this condition by someone that might not be inclined to tolerate a stranger in their home. A wife perhaps? Girlfriend?

"When I left yesterday he was on the couch. The couch, Foggy. Let's leave aside the fact that you dragged a complete stranger into your home, we'll come back to that in a second, and go for the next most pressing question-"

"Y'mean how the hell am I supposed to get him into clean clothes without getting unnecessarily intimate? I don't know, Claire, but it keeps me up at night."

Claire. He had heard the name yesterday. The woman that had suggested to Foggy he rest; he was still secure then, for now. Matt leaned back against the pillow, content to eavesdrop until he found a more convenient angle of escape.

"No, Foggy, I mean how the hell he got from your couch to your bed in the few hours I was gone. You're going to keep him, aren't you?"

"I am intimately acquainted with that couch, and it bites. He looked like he needed the bed more than I did."

"He's not a puppy, Foggy. You can't just give him a bed and some food and run off to work. You should have called the police."

"See, you don't mean that or you would have done it for me. And of course he's not a puppy. If he were a puppy we could've shared the bed last night."

A low, frustrated snarl greeted this pronouncement. "You're not taking this seriously."

"I am, I swear, but it's not like I can just toss him out. He looks like he came out on the losing side of a battle with a wood-chipper. Just a few more nights, Claire, just until he's up and walking and then I swear I'll let him go, no questions asked."

"Bullshit. You always meddle."

"You were pretty damn grateful for it when this was you."

"That was different. I was a nurse, you already knew me, and I didn't creep into your room when your back was turned." She had already resigned herself to losing, Matt could hear it in the way her words came slower and the embarrassed scuff of her feet against the floor.

"Same thing. At least this guy wasn't a package deal with some crazy Russian dudes, which is more than I can say for you. Also, he didn't really 'creep.' To be fair, I kind of had to carry him. I think creeping is going to be beyond him for a few more days at least. Which is why he's staying."

"I give up. It's your life, it's your problem. But I want you to remember this conversation when he slits your throat and tosses your apartment."

"Such a ray of sunshine. I'll be fine, all the statistics are on my side."

An incredulous snort, "Keep telling yourself that."

"You ever heard of anyone else being brutally murdered by a blind man with one foot in the grave? I bet The Daily Bugle would pay big money for that one: "Blind Assassin Blindly Assassinating in Hell's Kitchen." Jameson's titles are the spice of my sad life."

Glasses clinked and liquid shifted, companionable silence falling between the two. "How is he?"

"He's not dying if that's what you're asking. He's going to hurt for a while and I'd love an explanation to go with that outfit, but… he'll live. A few more scars to add to an already impressive collection and probably a nasty case of arthritis a decade or so down the line, but he's breathing and stable. You need to change the bandages at least twice a day. Three if you can starting tomorrow."

"So you think this is a fairly regular occurrence? Getting the shit royally beat out of him?"

Matt considered a moment; it wasn't often that he lost, but taking a thrashing was far from unusual. He was good for it- even as a child he'd had a knack for taking his licks and keeping his feet. It was one of the many reasons he had lasted so long in Fisk's organization when the turnover rate for his position had been so high.

"It's not irregular. He doesn't belong to the Russians, no tattoos at all."

"Lalalalala, I'm not listening. Don't even try implicating me in a crime because that is the _last_ thing I need right now. That would just be the shitty icing on an already hellish piece of cake."

"They're still after you then?"

"Still trying, they haven't actually got anything on me. I didn't access any files they didn't order me to, and I was well within my rights to report it. This is just a storm in a teapot, swear."

Another silence punctuated only by the fizzing sound of a drink whose sour stench pointed toward cheap beer.

"You think he'll wake up anytime soon? It's a little disconcerting, how still he is. I am constantly fighting the urge to check his pulse."

"Don't wake him. The more he sleeps, the faster he heals and the faster he heals, the sooner he's gone. I'll sleep better once I know you're sleeping alone."

Laughter again. Murdock started at the sound, half-expected as it was. Every word Foggy spoke was tinted with the slightest shade of it. He should have been more surprised the man had taken this long to give into the impulse.

"I should be going. Call me when he's ambulatory."

A wry chuckle, "I've got it, Claire. Thanks for your help, but maybe it's better I take it from here. Neither one of us want you any deeper in than you have to be."

"Hm. I'm going upstate in a few days, I'll be staying with my sister until this whole thing blows over."

"Finally, she speaks sense."

The voices moved away, feet gliding across what sounded like imitation wood to linoleum to… the front door. Its hinges squeaked as it opened, both of them stepping outside for extended farewells Murdock thoughtlessly tuned out. Claire was the element that concerned him, curious and perceptive. For all that Foggy had taken her words to heart, he seemed far more inclined to give his erstwhile guest the benefit of the doubt.

Matt wanted to talk to him. What sort of man was it that could drag a stranger into his home, ruin his couch and give up his bed without a second thought, and all of it without expecting anything in return? Foggy seemed talkative, a little too open with his affairs and a little too prone to generosity. It should be no trick to draw him into conversation. The right questions combined with Foggy's unconscious reactions to them would provide the answers he sought.

This just couldn't be right. There had to be more to the story. 'Quid pro quo' was more than every child's introduction to Latin, it was a way of life and Foggy Nelson was either critically unaware of that fact or far more cunning than he sounded. Either could be true, else why should anyone be after him for what sounded like sabotage?

The door opened and shut again, a cheerful whistle drifted to his ears, a lighter sound to the step than had been there a moment ago. He tried to steady his breathing, knowing instinctively that Foggy was heading straight for the bedroom and his charge. He couldn't keep himself from digging his fingers into the sheets, fighting the urge to throw them off and greet his rescuer standing. Good intentions or not, Matt was wary of greeting anyone lying down so that his every vital point was exposed.

"Hey, you're awake. That's lucky. For you, I mean. How d'you feel about grilled cheese?"

Foul stuff. The gunk that passed for cheese in this state ought to be criminal. Matt still nodded his approval; food was food and he was in no position to be picky.

"Soup with that?"

Another nod. At least that could act as a palate cleanser. He had started to become accustomed to the finer things in life thanks to Fisk's support. Perhaps that was why he had been complacent enough to let the Serb take him by surprise. He considered and discarded the idea of reverting to austerity measures, but he had long since paid his dues to his mentors. What comforts he had were earned on days like today.

His host still lingered on the threshold, evidently debating if he was going to say anything further. Curiosity won out.

"You never did say if there was someone I could call?"

"No."

Wesley. He would have to contact him soon, but not until he could hold his own again. There was something cold in the man, a lack of sentiment that made him hard to read even with hyper-sensitivity. Matt felt more secure here with the stranger than he did Fisk's right-hand man. This one at least was easy to read and anticipate. His questions demanded more than he knew, but some vestige of courtesy or perhaps a latent self-preservation instinct kept him from prying too far past the succinct answers he received.

Foggy wasn't gone long; he returned in short order, betrayed by the clink of porcelain against cheap stainless steel utensils.

"Soup, sandwiches or me?" Laughter again, loud and booming until Matt nearly covered his ears, "Joking. Me, obviously." He pressed a tray into Matt's hands, settling it gently in his lap.

"Guess it'll be easier if you're sitting up. Can you do that on your own or do you need help?"

No, no, Matt did not need help. He did not want another stranger's hands on him, did not want this man to see him struggle up onto his elbows and finally into an upright position.

"Damn, forgot my tray. Be right back."

A lie if his uneven breathing was any indication, and Matt knew it was. He appreciated the tact, doubly knowing that for his host it was the farthest thing from his nature. Twice he had to stop and catch his breath before pushing himself up a little farther. He could hear Foggy standing just outside the doorway breathing as lightly as he could, tray clenched in anxious hands that wanted nothing so much as to help his guest sit up.

The idea of this man living alone in Hell's Kitchen was enough to prickle Matt's skin, all the more because he was getting an inkling of where that 'Nelson' had come from and it wasn't the neighborhood butcher shop.

"Foggy."

His host barreled into the room, tray clutched like a shield before him entirely prepared to do battle with any specter of pain or unease. Matt nearly smiled at the picture he knew it must have made; he could feel his features losing some of their tightness-

"Yes, good, that's exactly the expression I need you to be wearing when Claire comes back. She thinks you're some kind of psycho. Then again, being chased by psychos would do that to anyone. And Claire has been, hunted by complete nutjobs that is. I'm guessing you have some experience with that."

Subtle. The man wanted to be taken for a fool, but his question was shrewd and so carefully delivered it didn't raise Matt's hackles.

"Where am I?"

"Right, sorry, my place. Which is to say the building just East of where I found you last night. In the alley. My professional advice is take them to court and hand them their asses, but don't say I told you so. Isn't that the first question you're supposed to ask? Personally if some strange dude dragged me into his bed those would probably be the first words out of my mouth."

Matt reached out quietly, gesturing for the tray Foggy still held defensively before him. Not a fool at all, for all that Matt was laid up in his bed, stitches pulling at his skin and hairline fractures just beginning to make themselves known, his rescuer was still wary of him. Foggy settled on the very edge of the bed, reluctantly surrendering the tray, his hesitation was almost another presence in the room.

"So, Matt, I can call you Matt right? If there's no one I can call, is there somewhere you need to go? Claire says you shouldn't be moving yet, but again, I'd be a little freaked waking up in a strange apartment in New York. That's how ninety-nine percent of most urban legends begin and at least eighty percent of those end in a bathtub without a kidney."

"It has happened before." Matt conceded, inhaling the scent of the soup. It was easy on the spices and hadn't spent any time in a can; that was good enough for his suddenly ravenous appetite.

"Maybe don't admit that so casually. Just a tip." A thread of concern wound through his voice. Finally Nelson was beginning to wonder just what or who he had dragged in the front door. It truly hadn't occurred to him before now that whatever had harmed his guest might be less threatening than the guest himself.

For some reason, Matt was furious. This idiot had taken a stranger into his home without any thought for his own safety or consideration for his well-being. He was speaking cheerily, as though he hadn't just dragged a half-dead man into his apartment, as though he hadn't surrendered his bed and exposed his friend to danger.

Matt could have snapped his wrist and shoved the tray into his trachea, left him choking and writhing on the floor as he tried to breathe through the ruin of it. Anything, anything at all. Nelson thought he was safe because his guest was injured, Matt knew even now it would only require a little extra effort to pin this man down and snap his neck before he had even managed to reach his phone.

It was too much to bear. Good people were supposed to know their limitations, were supposed to keep watch and be wary lest they meet someone like him. Clearly no one had bothered to inform Foggy Nelson of that fact, and it pissed Matt off even as he benefited from it.

"Why did you bring me here?" Matt lifted a spoonful of soup cautiously to his lips, wincing at the searing heat. It hit his stomach with a pang of pain that reminded him this was his first true meal in almost three days now. He considered for a moment before laying the spoon aside and drinking down the soup greedily. His host huffed with satisfaction, evidently relieved he was well enough to put a little food away.

"There was the whole bleeding out in an alley thing. Then there was that part where you begged me not to call an ambulance and I thought I was honoring a death bed wish. Lucky thing for you Claire had the night off. Not so lucky for me, now I owe her. She always collects on her debts." His voice faltered on an audible wince at the last word. "But hey, what's a little more red ink in the ledger between complete strangers?"

"What the hell were you doing outside at three A.M.?"

"Tell me yours, I'll tell you mine." The words were light and jocular, the tone suggested deadly seriousness. Matt took a bite from his sandwich while he considered an answer.

"Fate protects fools." It was all he could come up with, and the bite in his voice surprised even him.

"So you're… a fool?"

Matt bit his tongue, iron and copper flooding his mouth a split second before the pain. He paused to glare in the direction where he knew Foggy sat.

"I mean, I get that you think I'm a little stupid bringing you into my house and all, but-" Matt could hear the shrug in the way the material of Foggy's shirt stretched around his shoulders to accommodate it. "Which of us is worse off, the one that brought you in or the one that needed to be brought in? I could make a case either way."

There, the spark of recognition he needed! "Landman and Zack."

"What the hell." Foggy breathed, more an acknowledgment than a question.

"Franklin Nelson, Landman and Zack. Dismissed for-"

"Resigned. I _resigned_. Just a few seconds ahead of a pink slip, but it counts. Which raises the question of how you got your misinformation. Were you planning on getting the shit beat out of you solely to get into my bed, because there were far easier ways to accomplish that. Wait, that's not what I meant. _Shit_. We are off topic. This is my apartment, that is my bed, and if you want to stay in either one you can tell me why I found you where I did. No offense, but I don't want to wake up and find out I'm sharing my house with crazy."

"Business complications," Matt offered, it was the truth after a fashion. Telling enough that it should give Foggy some idea of who he was dealing with, vague enough that he wouldn't be required to report it or face charges of collusion.

His muttered stream of profanity suggested Foggy had just realized exactly that.

"All right, table that. Let's go back to how you know my name, because that is the part that's going to keep me up at night."

With good reason. Franklin Nelson had been dismissed for pawing through files Landman and Zack had buried so deep an Arctic expedition should have had trouble finding them. One mention of an obscure case in a stray brief had sent Nelson combing through every confidential source that even hinted at the existence of one Wilson Fisk- one of the premier clients of the firm he was supposed to be working for and Matt's direct superior.

What he had found did not inspire any faith in the integrity of his peers and had lead him to no less a personage than Leon Owlsley and a host of misappropriated funds. By the end of the week Fisk had been notified, by Monday Wesley had already taken care of the myriad details that went into destroying a budding attorney's credibility. None of them had expected Nelson to do anything more than tuck his tail between his legs and slink away, maybe to another city with less prestigious firms.

Franklin Nelson came from old money; there was no reason it should have ended his career entirely. But if his conversation with Claire was any indication, he was still pursuing the leads he had managed to collect from his former employers. If he had meddled with the Russians on Claire's behalf already it was no stretch to think the trail implicated those operations as well.

Wesley would have to be notified immediately. Fisk would likely require his services as well.

Murdock set the food aside, appetite ruined at the realization. It was nothing he had not done before, insinuating himself into someone's confidence, into their lives and their beds and every aspect of themselves they kept so dearly guarded only to turn his knowledge against them. His hands were stained with the blood of companions and lovers. But this was new, killing someone that had gone out of their way to help him. Foggy had expected nothing in return, had not considered him as anything more than a fellow human being in need and had ignored all common sense and warning signs to save him.

That was his mistake.

Matt rubbed his fingers against the cotton of the sheets, letting the coarseness irritate him. It was a new sensation to process, and one that distracted him at least a little from the persistent agony still coursing through his veins.

It was that little detail that nagged at him: the couch beneath him that had sagged only slightly in the middle, well-worn imitation leather against his skin. A thread count that abraded every raw cut and bruise now that he had been moved to a bed. An apartment in a part of Hell's Kitchen Matt knew for a fact even criminals stepped lightly in, the creak of hinges and battered floorboards as the man's companion had let herself in…

Why? The Nelsons took care of their own; Foggy Nelson had graduated Columbia on his father's dime, had worked at a firm that prided itself on positively exorbitant billing hours. All of these things Wesley had laid before Fisk as an example of why he should be the one permitted to deal with the problem of an inquisitive attorney rather than Fisk's prized lap dog. Franklin Nelson would be missed, too many questions would be asked and answers potentially found.

Yet here he was, living far below what his means should have been, consorting with hunted nurses and strange men in alleyways.

Fisk would want to know this, he would want to take action immediately and in a far more definite way than Wesley had arranged.

"Do I get an answer or do I call the police?" The uncertainty had left Foggy's voice, replaced with annoyance and resolve.

"I worked at Landman and Zack. You were remembered there."

Not quite a lie. If Nelson tried to verify it, and Matt was sure he would, the records would all be in place that said Matt Murdock had once been an associate. He had, for a time, back when Fisk thought he might make something more of him than just another assassin. That had been the trouble, Matt Murdock was incapable of being 'just' anything, he was the best at his duties and his work at Landman and Zack had distracted him from it.

He was worth more as a killer than he ever would have been as an attorney, and Fisk always placed his pawns where they were most needed.

"No kidding." Nelson's tone was flat and suspicious, words coming hesitantly but firmly. "How's Marci doing?"

A trap? No, Marci had been working for the firm long before Matt had arrived on the scene. She had become something of a legend among the other associates, someone they could aspire to be and a personal favorite of Wesley's for her ruthless competence. Still, there was a ring of bitterness in Foggy's voice that Matt wanted to avoid provoking.

"Still terrorizing clients and colleagues alike when I left." He tried for humor, knew it fell far short at the way Foggy shifted away from him. Playing at gentler emotions had never been Matt's forte. For all that he was a killer, he was an honest one.

"Yeah? When was that?"

The sigh that escaped him was unintentional and laden with more disappointment than Matt cared to admit. "Too long."

It struck the right chord with his host, Matt could feel him moving closer again, hand reaching out to his in an aborted gesture of comfort only to clench in the sheets.

"Sorry they screwed you over too, but trust me, they would have demanded your soul at some point. It wouldn't be worth it." He cleared his throat, "So how exactly does a lawyer find himself in an alley in Hell's Kitchen? Myself excepted because I am not the one that almost died. I am also not the one wearing bondage gear."

It hurt to laugh, bad enough that Matt could feel hand-to-heaven tears gathering in his eyes at the shock of it. It had been so long. The sound was rusty and hollow, grating on his ears.

"I had a disagreement with a friend of the Russians. We didn't settle." No need to say which Russians he meant, Foggy would jump to all the right conclusions if he was half the lawyer Matt thought he must be. No need to explain himself any further. His excitement at hearing someone else admit to tangling with the Russians had set his heart to racing. This was a cause Foggy Nelson sympathized with, and that made Murdock an investment worth protecting.

"Fine, be cryptic." He sounded considerably more cheerful again, reassured. Curiosity still twined through his words and a great deal more concern, but Matt sensed for now the questions were at an end.

Just as well, it would be a couple days yet before he wanted to leave shelter. When he did he would be faced with the unfortunate choice of whether to report before taking action or eliminating his new target while he had him in the proverbial cross-hairs. Until then they would co-exist peaceably.

"So all that settled, I'm betting you would kill for some clean clothes."

Matt laughed again, softer this time for the sake of his aching ribs. There was nothing even vaguely amused in the tortured sound.


	2. The Bad Idea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite his suspicions, Foggy does what he can to care for his new guest.

"These are going to be big for you, but better than what you're wearing, I guess."

It was true, the scent of stale blood and refuse still clung to him, permeated his clothes, his hair, and even his skin until Matt wondered that he did not choke on it every time he drew a breath. Anything else would have been preferable.

Nelson was at least forty pounds heavier, not carrying the same muscle mass, but Matt was hard-pressed to keep the eagerness from his face. He wanted to be clean again, inoffensive to his own nose and free of the confines of his too-tight clothes. Doubtless the extra cloth of Foggy's shirt would have proved detrimental in combat, but it would be days before he was fighting fit again and he intended to recover in as much comfort as he could.

Of course Foggy would put him out again soon. His civic and moral duty was done, more than, and the novelty of rescuing a stranger should have been well on its way to wearing off, replaced by the reality of caring for one. Nevertheless he intended to ask for one final indulgence.

"May I have a bath?" He prepared for the inevitable refusal, even as he hoped this once the cards would fall in his favor-

"Yeah, sure. If you think you can, I mean. Claire says you can't get the sutures wet, so it's going to have to be a shallow bath. Maybe you should use the sink today."

"Anything. Anything at all." Matt's voice was hoarse with eagerness. He could make do with any inconvenience if it meant getting even a little of this stench off his skin.

"Right, um, I'll be back. You probably shouldn't change yet, clean clothes and all." He leapt up with surprising agility and bounded from the room, leaving Matt to conclude the scent of blood disturbed his host as much as it did him. Thank God.

He rested against the headboard, listening for the sound of Foggy's footsteps as they carried him to the bathroom, cupboard doors slamming and supplies moving- For all that the sheets had the lowest thread-count he had felt since leaving St. Agnes, they were clean. The shirt in his hand was starched, pants all but lint-free. He rested easier knowing the bath would probably be the same, he need not worry about bathing in filth.

"Wash cloth." Foggy chirped, pressing it into Matt's hands alongside the shirt, "Do you need help to the bathroom or-"

"Please." The word slipped free of its own accord, some precious remnant of his upbringing rearing its head despite the years. He could hear the surprise in Nelson's indrawn breath at the easy admission; clearly he had been expecting a refusal at the very least, possibly even outright resistance. He recovered quickly enough that an average man would never have noticed the slip, taking Matt's free hand in his own and slipping down to bear some of his weight as he pulled himself from the bed.

It was an awkward hobble out the door until they finally learned to walk in step, Nelson's free arm clamped about his waist beneath the broken ribs, hand resting lightly atop the stitches. They pulled viciously, trace amounts of blood seeping from the wound. Nothing that he needed or wanted to draw attention to. His bare feet slid on the floor, toes curling for purchase they could not find, but Nelson bore him up anyway, careful not to misstep. It had been hard enough pulling himself from the bed, just as well he wouldn't have to face the grueling task of lowering himself into and out of a soap-slippery bath.

Foggy drew a breath as though to speak, swallowed his words and guided Matt through the door instead. The bathroom was small enough with the two of them Matt was certain it would send him into a claustrophobic episode if he were prone to it. Fortunately small spaces had always felt safe to him, easier to secure and defend.

"The tap's here." Foggy guided his hand to the sink, pressing it against the knob. "This one's cold."

Matt grabbed the other without prompting, reasserting his capability, "And this one is hot. Yes." His words were short and clipped, prickly and defensive. Foggy heard it in his tone, gently lowered his arm again, surrendering his weight slowly and stepping away.

"Call if you need me for something. I'm not going far."

"I can bathe myself." He could feel Nelson stiffen, doubtless wondering what he had done to provoke this sudden hostility. Matt tacked on a hasty "Thank you," though it didn't seem to do much in the way of placating his host.

It wasn't Foggy's fault, he reminded himself, that he had fallen this far. He had no one to blame but himself for his breathlessness, the ache that had settled in his bones after even that short walk. It would be longer than he cared to stay before he was well enough to be on his own, and he didn't know how the hell he was going to get his shirt off between his ribs and the stitches, but he didn't want help. He had not needed anyone for years, and it rankled that he was now dependent on the misplaced kindness of a stranger.

But pride was of no use to him here, and as he had so many times in the past Matt forced himself to discard it, "Foggy?"

It was the first time he had used that ridiculous nickname aloud, and he was surprised at how easily it rolled off the tongue. It seemed to fit, not that Foggy seemed particularly confused, just that "Nelson" sounded too stern by half, and "Franklin" too stuffy. Foggy it was.

"Yes, oh terrorizer of lawyers and lurker of alleyways?"

Better than his other titles, Matt supposed. Demon, assassin, pet- Devil.

"My shirt-" He didn't have to finish the thought, he could hear Foggy clamp a horrified hand to his mouth, almost squeaking with distress.

"Fuck, the stitches- My bad, I'm an idiot." Matt was grateful he hadn't actually had to verbalize his shortcoming, grateful that his host always stood ready to fill the silence.

"Behind you." Foggy murmured, unnecessary though it was. Matt could feel the puff of his breath in his hair, the warmth he radiated pierced right through the shirt, smell the suggestion of a light cologne and 'scentless' detergent. Nevertheless, he appreciated the thought.

"May I?" He rested unassuming hands at Matt's sides, gripping the material lightly. Matt froze with shock. He had asked. Even after Matt had made it plain, he had asked, he waited, waited until some of the tension left Matt's muscles, until his breathing was coming normally again rather than short and choppy.

"Get it off. Please."

"Your arms-" Foggy moved them gently, waiting for Matt's cooperation rather than insisting, pulling the material away piece by piece when it stuck to skin. He was careful not to touch any exposed skin, seeming to know that on top of everything else, even that stimulus might have been agony.

Matt heard the way his breath caught, partially in sympathy at the bruises and abrasions doubtless coloring his torso, but there was curiosity there too, a vague tinge of arousal that Foggy did not permit to interfere with his task. Matt could sense his shame in a split-second hesitation, the way his forced his breathing to shallow out and his touch to stay impersonal as he adjusted Matt's arms.

That more than anything set Matt at his ease. The edge of shame that proved even a man as well-intentioned as Foggy Nelson could have a moment of weakness, not that Matt begrudged it of him. He was a well-built man, if one's interests tended in that direction, and he had used it to his advantage on dozens of occasions. This time he would not have to.

"Sorry, maybe I should have taken this off when Claire was over, but I figured if I woke up in a stranger's bed bloody and shirtless I would probably have a panic attack."

"Thank you." The words came a little easier now, but not by much. Foggy didn't let the awkward silence settle, breaking it with an intentional stumble into the door jamb.

"No problemo. Who doesn't need a little practice getting shirts off, right? No, ignore me. I haven't had coffee today."

He ducked out of the bathroom mid-sentence, swearing under his breath. Matt felt an unaccustomed smile tugging at his lips again, a chuckle bubbling up from somewhere in his gut. For all Foggy was renowned for a mean cross, in his personal life he seemed to have little control over that tongue. At least this way his honesty was irreproachable.

Matt turned his mind to the matter at hand, careful not to jostle or over-reach, cleaning as best he could though it was never quite good enough. He didn't dare stretch his arms high enough to reach his hair, sticky and matted, or even as far as his shoulders that stung with myriad cuts. His back too was out of the question and the idea of lying down on clean sheets to taint them with his dirty skin was too much to bear.

Since his host had proved so obliging the first time-

"Foggy?" He raised his voice, hearing the shuffle of feet in the bedroom where it sounded like Foggy was changing the sheets. He hastened to the bathroom, dropping the pillow sham he had been changing without a thought.

"Hm?"

No one could ever fault the man for being slow on his feet. "My hair, I can't-" He could have, but not without potentially damaging himself even more, and some part of him wanted to press his host to see just how far that professional mask would take him. Some part of him wanted to know if Foggy Nelson was truly as good a man as he seemed. Until a few minutes ago he would not have laid money on it, but Matt was beginning to wonder if maybe he hadn't just found the last innocent man in Hell's Kitchen.

Not that it mattered, it changed nothing. But it would explain why Landman and Zack had been so quick to comply at Wesley's light pressuring, why Fisk had been distraught, worried even, when he heard Nelson was pawing through his files. The curious thing about innocent men, Matt had discovered, was that they were usually the last to leave a fight when they found one worth picking.

"Right, sorry, I've got you covered. No, actually I lie, the shower head isn't detachable and I don't know how we're going to do this, but gimme a second and I'll figure something out." His chatter should have been obnoxious, every thought on his mind carelessly spilled out for an audience. Matt was enjoying it; there was no need to listen for stress cues in his voice, no need to attune himself to a racing heartbeat or radically altered breathing rhythms because whatever passed for Foggy's verbal filter was nearly non-existent.

"Kitchen sink. It's deeper so you won't hit your head on the faucet. Been there done that, and it hurts more than you think."

Matt pulled a face, lips crinkling at the thought of the foulness all through his hair contaminating what should have been a reasonably contained environment.

"Hey, don't give me that face. Desperate times means we get a pass, and I have bleach."

Wonderful. He would be tasting it on the dishes every meal assuming he stayed another day, and it certainly sounded like he was going to.

Foggy started to walk out, Matt falling into step behind him, only to pause halfway and catch Matt's hand again. "Sorry, I keep forgetting."

Matt didn't bother to inform him he was capable of supporting his own weight. It had been years since he had been this close to another human being without the need to manipulate and charm, years since the touch had been anything other than demanding or lustful. It was comfortable, easy, to lean into Foggy's warmth now and take advantage of the intimacy he offered so casually, unaware of its significance.

Besides, Matt thought with a twist of his gut, it would make it easier later if Fisk demanded he clean up after himself.

 

 

The cascade of water jangled pleasantly against the metal of the kitchen sink, creating a sort of tinny harmony with the tick of the clock and the static buzz of a TV he could hear just through the wall. Matt reached out unthinkingly, letting the cold water run over his fingers for a few seconds while Foggy carelessly rolled up his sleeves. He always showered after a job, sometimes for an hour at a time. Baths were something he preferred to avoid, the idea of bathing in his own dirt had never appealed.

In a shower, though, he could almost pretend his sins washed away as easily as the blood.

"Cold enough for you?"

"Yes." Too cool, in fact, but heat would be worse against any open cuts. He started at the thoughtless brush of Foggy's hand against his own, testing the water for himself.

"Little cold, but better that than scalding, huh?"

Matt murmured his inaudible agreement. It was strangely intimate: Foggy just off to his left, weight shifting uncomfortably as he tried to decide how best to approach the task of washing a stranger's hair. Matt leaned over, releasing a steady breath when he felt the warmth of Foggy's palm against his bare skin. He had expected a soft hand, clammy and unmarked, but Foggy's palms were dry, a little rough to the touch though it had clearly been years since he had put his hands to hard labor.

"Watch the tap." One warm hand pressed into his forehead, guiding him down gently beneath the water. It stung enough that Matt only just stifled his profanity; he felt Foggy flinch with him as his fingers combed through matted hair.

"There's still a little glass in your scalp. Sorry about that, Claire tried to pick it out but there was just so much else…" He scrubbed gently, pausing every now and again to let Matt adjust to the sensation, hand rubbing soothing circles on his back, careful to avoid the ugly gash and myriad abrasions.

Matt winced when he caught on a snag, sighing with relief when Foggy immediately stopped, shifting his hand away from the irritation. "Is this all right?"

"Yes."

Better than. His groan was more pleasure than pain, and with every pass of Foggy's hand he could feel himself relaxing into the touch just a little more. He wanted to stay like this forever, with the cool steel along the edge stinging on his fever-warm skin, the water washing him clean until he could smell nothing but himself and his host, the scent of a clean kitchen- warm hands tangling in his hair without the intent to hurt, only heal. He shuddered, stretching his shoulders and leaning further into the water on a whim.

Matt found he even enjoyed the occasional hiss Foggy tried so hard to cover up when he came across a particularly nasty cut. He could hear lips pursing, sheer offense in every line of the man's body. Matt almost told him about Jack, about the times he had patched his old man up with his own hands, wiping away more blood than most men shed in a lifetime. This? This was nothing.

He caught himself mid-word, turned it into a pleased sigh instead, spitting water as it trickled into his mouth. They didn't speak any longer, both lost in their own troubled thoughts, each thinking of the other.

When the water stopped Matt very nearly pleaded with Foggy to turn it back on. Whatever was in his hair was mild enough- jojoba and a slight scent of coconut. A woman's shampoo. He didn't like it, didn't want to smell of anything but himself. He clamped his jaw shut on the obvious question- who was the woman in Foggy's life? Was she coming back? Would she want back into that bed too large for any one man?

"Coming up." Foggy's hand pressed into his forehead again and Matt leaned into it, seeking every last shred of contact he could finagle his way into. It was nice, comfortable in a way he hadn't felt since the nuns at the orphanage had run their hands through his hair, ruffling it despite his half-hearted protests. He hadn't realized how much a man could miss something so simple until he had lost it entirely.

The towel was next, terry cloth that abraded his already sensitive scalp no matter how Foggy tried to temper it. He kept up a litany of words Matt didn't listen to, snatches of conversation drifting to his ears even as he sank into a pleasant stupor he didn't rouse from until Foggy actually asked him to walk, the barest edge of a smile in his voice.

"Try not to fall asleep on your feet. I would probably leave you here. I really don't think I could lift you."

"I'm sure you couldn't." It was a statement of fact, but it sent Foggy off into gales of laughter that left him gasping for breath. It was infectious, Matt smiled for what must have been the third time in a day, facial muscles protesting the underused expression. He felt cleaner, lighter in more ways than one, and this after such a short time-

Irrelevant.

He twitched away from Foggy's hand violently, almost stumbling in his haste to be away. Foggy reached for him instinctively, pulling back when he saw the look of panic that flickered over Matt's face for all of a second. There was no telling what the hell his assailants had put him through, but Foggy suspected his antipathy to touch went back farther than a night or two. Whatever other conclusions he drew he kept carefully to himself.

Matt was unspeakably grateful not to be pressed.

He found the shirt bunched in his hands once more while Foggy unfolded it, slipping it over his arms and down his shoulders as quickly as he could, no lingering touches or unnecessary contact. Matt craved it and didn't. Didn't want a stranger's hand on him, but missed the sense of care that radiated from his host whenever he brushed against him.

There were some he liked hurting less than others. Some he had downright reveled in over the years. This one he was going to hate, and no amount of water was going to wash away the knowledge that he had killed a good man. The first one of his kind Matt had ever had the displeasure of encountering in the midst of business.

He felt the way Foggy paused, doubtless taking in the faded scars on his back again, taking a tally of them in his head and wondering anew what had possessed him to bring a stranger home. Whatever his thoughts, he covered them quickly.

"Eh. A little big, not bad. What d'you think, rather go shirtless?"

No, no he liked the feel of the cotton, liked the way it draped about him, barely brushing against his hyper-attuned skin. "No, I'll keep this."

He could feel Foggy's shrug, "Suit yourself."

"Is it the color?" Another question slipping from his lips before he could tamp down on it, this one actually inviting the conversation his savior so casually offered.

"No, cream is definitely your thing. But personally I'd kill to be able to work in my PJs. Easier on the budget and kinda like having a sleepover every day. Without the friends, or the hangover, or the week-long regret."

Matt was beginning to recognize the spate of words for what it was, not only a blind for unwary opponents but a habit, a comforting mechanism for friends and self alike. It served its purpose rather well, he thought.

"Pants are going to be an issue. I guarantee mine won't fit or Claire's for that matter-"

"Who is Claire?" The owner of the jojoba shampoo perhaps? The other occupant of the bed?

"Riiight. You haven't met Claire. You will. She wanted on the hour reports once you were awake and I haven't really got around to telling her yet. I thought you might need awhile to adjust before she starts poking and prodding, but chances are she's going to cut those pants the rest of the way off of you. Unless you really object?"

"No, it's fine." Mostly because his legs were afire with bruises and still more cuts. He would have done anything to get the too tight fabric off. "The pants can go."

"Hey I'm all for burning them. Pants in general, sure, but yours in particular. There is no laundry in New York that could get these clean. You want me to help you out of them now or save it for Claire?"

"Now, please now." He wanted them the hell off; now that he was clean they were the only discordant note in the cacophony of his senses.

Foggy was even tactful enough to bite back the teasing comment Matt could practically feel hovering on the tip of his tongue, restrained only by sheer self-discipline. He allowed himself to be guided to the couch again, manipulated this way and that while Foggy tried everything in his power to get the tight material off without further injuring his patient or taking unnecessary liberties. It would have been amusing if his skin didn't burn like fire and if Foggy hadn't been so plainly distressed by his every flinch or indrawn breath. He felt every pain like it was his own, and Matt could feel it in his hands.

"You should probably get back to bed as soon as you can. I can help, if you like, but Claire is going to interrogate you. I half thought she would try last night."

Matt latched onto one word: Bed. Barely more than half an hour awake and already he was exhausted and aching, tired beyond belief and with a headache building behind his eyes that would have sent lesser men scrambling for a Tylenol. Which he would have done if he weren't certain it would panic Foggy again.

"Bed sounds fantastic." His speech was slurred and halting, adrenaline seeping from his system leaving him defenseless to natural sleep.

"Up." He was glad Foggy kept his commands simple, easy to understand, glad that a sturdy arm was once more looped about his waist, another hand clamped over his own with care.

Thankfully he hit the covers before he could muster the energy to say as much.

 

 

Foggy shut the door slowly, closing his eyes against the squeak of the hinge. As bad as it was for him, it had to be that much worse for his guest. Given how sensitive the poor guy seemed to be to any sort of stimulus, he was betting on a migraine. Intimately acquainted with that particular pain, he tried to minimize the noise he made as he crept around the apartment looking for chores to do.

It wasn't easy; he had spent most of the last six months trying to keep a small practice afloat, and the time before that had been working so hard to fulfill his obligations at Landman and Zack it had left him no time for a personal life. He was surprised to find that his rightful home felt downright foreign to him, but there was no question of heading back to work so long as his guest was this bad off.

There was at least one benefit to being his own boss- he could decide when vacation ended. Assuming he didn't care if he made the bills on time.

Which, unfortunately, he did.

The TV did not appeal to him in the slightest, and after twenty minutes of leafing aimlessly through the books scattered everywhere except the bookcase he finally gave in and admitted only a walk could clear his head. He snatched his cell from the table near the door, trying and miserably failing to sneak out. Despite his best efforts he heard the shift of cloth from the other room as Matt started awake for all of a second, the telling silence that said he was on his last nerve and anticipating trouble.

"Out for a walk!" He cringed at how loud his own voice sounded to his ears, leaning against the door for a few seconds until he heard the linen rustle again. No response from Matt, but then Foggy supposed he wouldn't be so talkative either if someone had tried to knife him such a short time ago.

 

He hurried out, ignoring the bite of unease at leaving the man alone in his apartment. Had he not argued with Claire about this not two nights ago? Not everyone in this city was as corrupt or ill-intentioned as she imagined.

Bad as Claire was, Karen was the one that was going to kill him. She eyed everyone in the state like they were wolves just waiting to pounce, still a Midwest rural girl at heart and none too fond of Foggy's favorite city. She was probably going to vault the desk when he explained that it hadn't really been a cold keeping him out from work.

Assuming she didn't decide to visit with soup and sympathy first.

He paused on the sidewalk, debating the relative merits of sticking around in case she visited as opposed to clearing his head and sorting his thoughts with a little fresh air. Common sense said his guest was out like a light and Karen couldn't come in without an invitation. Karen actually cared for those sort of niceties, and it would be easy enough to bluff his way past her concern once he actually returned to the office.

No, Claire was the one to worry about. She was not above climbing the fire escape and letting herself in, as he knew from personal experience.

Karen, Claire, Anatoly, Wesley, Owlsley, Matt.

Too many names on a steadily growing list of people he had to look out for in one way or another. Too much to worry about, both at home and abroad. And now he didn't even have the shelter of his apartment to escape it; the man lying injured in his bed was the perfect reminder of why his work was vital, why he couldn't afford to take even these few days off…

There was simply no way on God's green earth he would be able to focus on paperwork with Matt Murdock in the next room over. His presence in the alley raised so many questions, the wounds both old and new, the tense expectation in every line of his body every time Foggy drew near.

He knew all the signs, Matt was running from something. The attorney in him wanted to ferret out what or who that might be, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to press. He knew exactly the questions he would have to ask, how to phrase them, even suspected some of the answers he would receive. He just didn't want to ask.

Claire had been there, Karen had been there, and they had both come out of it fine. Foggy hadn't earned their trust by prying, and he hadn't fixed their trouble alone. He couldn't save someone that didn't want saving, and Matt Murdock could not have made it more plain he didn't want or need a champion. He hadn't come asking for help like Claire, hadn't offered his story on a silver platter like Karen, he just wanted to be left the hell alone.

Foggy thought of the way Matt had leaned into his touch as he washed his hair, the way he had stood so passively as Foggy nudged him about, getting him dressed, getting him undressed. He amended his thoughts- it wasn't so much that Matt Murdock wanted to be left alone as it was he simply didn't know how to cope any other way.

It was none of his business-it wasn't. It wasn't- but if Matt was going to be staying a few days more maybe he could casually work in the admission that he knew something about abuse himself. That growing up hadn't been all sunshine and roses and damned if he didn't carry a few scars of his own- but he was well-adjusted, he was happy, he had friends and a purpose and everything Matt Murdock just looked so lost without.

Foggy could almost make himself believe that was it. That Matt was the victim here and the one clearly in need of saving… but there were those bloodied clothes bundled up in the trash. The dark shirt and bottoms that had clung to him like a second skin, the cloth bound about his eyes that covered his cheekbones, hiding any identifiable features. People just didn't dress like that when they wanted to run.

Interns from Landman and Zack didn't dress like that at all, but every instinct screamed at him that Matt hadn't been lying. Was it a little after-hours sleuthing gone wrong, perhaps?

Foggy was very well-acquainted with that particular conundrum. He still remembered the man that had been waiting for him after he had boxed up his things at Landman and Zack, navy blue suit and triple Windsor knot in his tie. He hadn't said it in so many words, but it was plain someone was displeased about what he had turned up digging through all those old tax returns. James Wesley, he had said his name was, proffering a check with enough zeroes on the line that Foggy's eyes had nearly popped out of his skull.

He had turned it down, of course, knowing full well checks like that came with strings attached that he did not want to be bound by.

Perhaps Matt had found himself in a similar circumstance and hadn't had the foresight or experience to recognize it for the cunningly laid trap it was.

He would look into it, check with Marci and see if maybe she didn't remember a Mr. Murdock. She had an eye for a handsome face, Foggy thought bitterly, and Matt certainly had that. Not that he had intended to notice.

"Nononononono. We're not even going there. Fuck, Karen- did I even? I am not getting involved, not this time. Psych! I am kidding no one here. God help me, why? Why is it always me?"

The man walking seven paces ahead glanced back nervously, walking just a little faster to avoid being any closer than necessary to the crazy man carrying on a Shakespearean monologue in tones of abject tragedy.

Foggy attempted a disarming smile; the man walked a little faster still.

So be it. More sidewalk for him.

His thoughts turned inward again, blind to the ember leaves sweeping across the sidewalk and deaf to the incessant din of traffic. He was over-thinking this. Really it was every bit as simple as it had seemed the night he found the man in the alley: Matt Murdock was in trouble, Foggy Nelson was in a position to help. It was all the information he needed for now, little details like whether or not he was hiding a fugitive criminal or some kind of… crazy vigilante groupie could wait until his erstwhile guest was capable of sitting up without assistance at least.

If he was going to insist in the courtroom that a man was innocent until proven otherwise, he owed it to a stranger to follow that same logic in his personal life regardless of his misgivings.

That didn't mean he had to be a fool about it, though.

Foggy turned back to the apartment, digging his cell out of his pocket reluctantly. He owed it to Karen to keep her out of this. It had taken her long enough to outrun the past, and the last thing she needed was to be dragged right back into a potential conspiracy but Claire was already involved for better or for worse. With that thought in mind he speed-dialed her number, waiting with bated breath until he heard the line pick up.

"Is he awake?"

"Hello, Claire, I'm doing lovely today thank you for asking. By the way, your patient is sleeping soundly; we had a bath today, and if you think you have a reasonable approximation of Mr. Murdock's measurements, it would be great if you could find some pants on your way over."

"What? Why am I hearing traffic? Where are you?"

"Heading home. Meet you there?"

"You left him alo- No, never mind. I'll meet you there."

"Thank you. Seriously, Claire, thank you. I owe you so many drinks."

"I'll be collecting them too. Just get home and stay there; we're not talking about your safety any more, we're talking about how you left a man alone that nearly bled to death two nights ago. If you won't think of one, consider the other."

"Shit. I wasn't thinking, I thought since he was conscious and-"

"Breathe, Foggy. He's fine for now, just get home."

Foggy broke into a brisk jog, pocketing the cell phone without even so much as a hasty goodbye. Claire would understand, he hoped. Not everyone dealt with these crises on a nightly basis and what the hell had he even been thinking? He was an idiot, a good intentioned idiot, meaning it was that much worse.

The sidewalk disappeared, eaten up by Foggy's ground-eating strides. For the first time in years he dared to take the steps two and three at a time, never let it be said that his one month of ballet had been wasted. The keys rattled in his hands, slipping out of his fingers and hitting the floor with a bang as loud as a gunshot in the silence. Finally he found the right one, trying not to make any more noise than necessary as he slipped it into the lock and pushed his way inside. The walls were thin enough that the neighbors had been known to complain about tenants laughing too loud, but he hoped against hope his fumble hadn't woken his guest from a much-needed rest-

In vain as it turned out.

Matt was braced against the door jamb of the bedroom, panting with the effort of hauling himself out of bed. The shirt was ruined, that much Foggy could see, dyed pink and splotchy in places where Claire's sutures had given out. He didn't seem particularly pained by it, but with the amount of medication running through his system that should not have come as a shock.

What struck Foggy was the stillness. It could not have been more than a second, but the silence seemed to stretch on for an eternity with Matt so solid and immovable he might as well have been a statue carved of stone. His face was set in roughly the same lines, stern and forbidding. The expression vanished as soon as Foggy had put a name to it, replaced once more by the melancholy and confusion he had come to expect.

"I'm sorry, I heard you running and I thought…"

Thought he had been followed. Thought whomever was hunting him might have found him at last.

At last Foggy understood the nature of the risk he had chosen to take. It was enough to send a frisson of adrenaline through his system, fingertips suddenly frigid from blood-loss, light-headed with the realization.

The next moment he realized he still didn't give a damn. Russians and Triad and Men in suits, oh my! And someone that gave entirely new meaning to the words 'crooked attorney'; if Matt Murdock wasn't on a shady someone's pay roll he would eat his good leather shoes laces and all. But that didn't mean he deserved to die for it or be run down like some kind of animal to its den. Men could change, humans could be better than their nature.

Maybe that was what had done him in. The mob made no plans for retirement, and if he had left Landman and Zack, if he had tried to leave his life behind… maybe it was still following him.

"Claire's coming, and I'm going to go ahead and guess you might want to change shirts again."

Calmness, normalcy, non-judgment. Foggy was a defense attorney, he had run the gamut of protecting everyone from the doubtlessly innocent to the unquestionably guilty and everyone in between. Everything about Matt Murdock screamed 'innocent' was the last adjective anyone would use to describe him, but 'not guilty' was still a possibility. Sooner or later he would get that story, but he wasn't judge or jury to render a verdict, and turning Murdock over to the police might well make him an executioner.

He would stay, then, at least until Foggy was sure the man's blood wouldn't be on his hands.

 

 

It was no use changing shirts as far as Matt was concerned, the scent of blood would stick with him until his wounds had been properly wrapped again. The one on his back would need to be sutured; he didn't relish the thought of the numb pull as his skin was threaded closed. He would have to be awake for it this time, and uncomfortably aware that he had an audience reading his every grimace and snarl.

Whichever Foggy had seen on his face a few minutes ago, it had sent his pulse into overdrive and given his sweat the bitter tang of nervousness. Matt knew he had miscalculated, he had tipped the rest of his hand so carelessly his host could not have helped but to have seen it. Nevertheless here they stood, with Foggy patiently dabbing the blood away from his injuries, checking to see which sutures still held firm and which would need retouching. Only the one, he claimed, but Matt was content to leave that decision to the nurse.

He was less sanguine about what precisely his responsibilities were toward Foggy now. Could they continue on as they had been, easy-going if a little wary or was Foggy intending to hand him over to the authorities as soon as he was treated this final time? It was a question he needed answered before more company arrived.

"Claire should be here any minute. Did you want to be in the bed or on the couch? Either's fine, but I think there's more light out near the couch."

"The couch." Matt dutifully repeated, still berating himself viciously for his error.

Worse, his first thought hadn't been that the Serbians had sent someone to finish him off; there was no way they could have found him so quickly, but Wesley had access to sources even their employer could not fathom. When he had heard Foggy's steps on the stair, heavy and rushed, the keys hitting the landing in his nervousness, he had worried that Wesley had found them. He had worried that his 'rescue' might have arrived late, and there was no doubt in his mind Wesley would clean up his mess if he was incapable of it.

Foggy had been spared once for convenience's sake. Finding Fisk's personal assassin, keeping him here and speaking with him whilst he was under the influence of drugs… Wesley would find that decidedly inconvenient and he would not hesitate to deal with him immediately.

He had to keep Foggy close. Fisk would have his men searching the grid, looking into corners even other criminals avoided, scouring the city until he found his man. Usually Matt appreciated his dedication, but when he had a secret like this to keep… he didn't want Fisk learning of Foggy until he had an opportunity to make a case for sparing him. He owed that much to a man that had saved him, and he owed it to Fisk to be certain no trouble would come of it.

 

* * *

 

 

The woman's footsteps were familiar, firm and swift strides that ate up the ground between her and the door. He could hear Foggy gamely tried to block her entry, protecting his patient to the best of his ability.

"No, Foggy, I need to go in."

Foggy hadn't said a word, but if they were as good a pair of friends as he had insinuated, it was natural that words were no longer needed between them.

The door swung open on hinges Foggy had actually oiled after seeing the way Matt shied away from the sound. Another kindness he had not expected, another debt he could not pay.

The Human force of nature that was Claire swept into the room, flipping the rug back into its rightful place, shoving aside a pile of books Foggy had left pressed against the wall, throwing open the blinds he had closed out of pure habit. She was businesslike, efficient, and worried. She knew him, maybe not by name or even reputation, but Claire knew him for what he was. She sensed it in the way every prey animal knew its predator.

"What's your name?"

"I told you," Foggy cut in exasperatedly, "Matt Mur-"

"I want to hear it from him, Foggy. Maybe you could grab us a coffee."

"Are you trying to shoo me out of my own room?"

Matt spoke over him, not bothering to lever himself up. "Matt-"

"What the hell, weren't you the one that said stress was bad? He's strung out on painkillers and just waking up, give him a few minutes at least."

"Murdock." Matt finished calmly, for all the world as though this encounter had played out according to an invisible script drafted by his own hand. For the first time since his awakening he felt in control, collected and prepared.

He didn't care to dwell on why it was that being attacked put him firmly back in his comfort zone.

Claire moved around the bed cautiously, brushing past his very surprised and increasingly annoyed host. The swish of her sleeve against his told Matt she was still dressed in scrubs, the whisper of her shoes said they were flat, the soles worn down to nothing. The stinging scent of antiseptic clung to her, latex and powder, a softer undertone of lotion just beneath- scentless and inoffensive. She was a nurse, he remembered, and evidently only just off shift. So much for leaving town.

Her eyes raked him from head to covered torso, taking in every injury in between. He could feel the weight of it on his skin, but made no move to conceal himself from her scrutiny. Between them, at least, he had nothing left to hide.

"Seriously, Foggy, I need to have a look at some of this. Privacy would be appreciated. And coffee."

"And coffee." Foggy repeated, a bite in his tone Matt had begun to think he might not be capable of. The flat tone of the words said clearly he did not take kindly to this intrusion, and he intended to make it known at length as soon as they had a moment alone. Matt heard the hesitation in his steps though, the way they dragged along the floor, the way his hand slid along the door knob before taking it in a firm grip. Whatever Foggy thought he knew of Matt, it did nothing to temper his protectiveness of an injured man.

Matt filed that away in case of future need.

"Thank you, Foggy." He was careful not to raise his voice though Foggy was across the room. That had been among the first of Stick's lessons- animals only cried out in fear, and men only raised their voices when they knew they were defenseless.

Evidently it was reassurance enough for Foggy; he slid out of the room, stomping to the kitchen in a restrained temper. Matt could almost pity Claire the argument she would have on her hands once she left.

She paused at his bedside just beyond his reach. She was tense and wary, uncertain of how much owed itself to the demanding rigors of her job and how much to the man lying unnaturally still in the bed before her. There was a quality to his languid movements as he slowly levered himself up, unconcernedly pulling the sheets away from his worse injuries that had her frozen in her tracks, battling a wave of unease.

A devilish impulse made Matt smile, turning his head to look in Claire's general direction. She would meet his gaze by instinct, he knew. "And how was your sister?"

"Fine, thanks." His estimation of her rose a notch when she forced herself to take those last steps forward, patting down her pockets as she made so bold as to sit down beside him. Her hands were firm but gentle as she helped him up, gliding past his wounds experimentally. "Looks like you're not, though."

She was striving for normalcy, recognizing the threat he presented and already seeking a way to neutralize him. He respected it even as it complicated his position even further. She would discuss everything with Foggy, share her misgivings and compound his own…

Matt began to regret his recklessness. Only a bit.

"Some of these need to be pulled out. Whatever you've been doing today, stop." He tried not to flinch when the sutures pulled beneath her questing fingertips, but bared his teeth in a silent snarl instead. He was already wishing he had asked Foggy to stay when it was so plain he had been waiting for the invitation. Foggy would have made her ask before she began pulling bandages and sutures from her pocket, iodine and gloves-

He started at the cool press of an alcohol prep pad, crushing her fingers in a desperate grip before she could go for the syringe he had never even suspected she had. "Don't."

"It's a local anesthetic. You're going to want it in a minute or two."

"Don't." Matt insisted, consciously releasing his grip when he felt her hand flexing beneath the strain.

To her credit she hesitated only a second, almost palpably running through a list of alternatives before finally deciding to honor his request. "Don't say I didn't warn you. And don't squirm."

The stinging was a comfort in its own way, familiar and welcome in a world turned upside down. Matt focused on the pain, cataloging and analyzing until it became nothing more than another sensation to add to the veritable cacophony already wreaking havoc on his senses. Claire didn't speak but he could feel in the brush of her gloved hands against his skin that she was consciously trying to suppress her wariness, operating on the same principles of observation and analysis that were keeping his thoughts clear.

Her breathing steadied again, movements becoming more sure as she lost herself in her work with only the occasional hiss or tut to indicate what she thought of his injuries. It was enough to reassure him his recovery would be no more than business as usual, with the exception of the unexpected companions he had attracted.

"Companions" was too strong a word, he shied from it instinctively.

"What the hell have you been doing?" She muttered, forgetting her reticence in dismay. "I told Foggy these couldn't get wet. They're soluble."

"We were careful."

"Not careful enough." She sniped back, still gentle at her work despite the frustration she didn't even bother to hide. "Try to actually stay in bed this time, all right? Don't let Foggy boss you out of it."

The casual assumption that Foggy could boss him around was evidence enough that he didn't have the full story. What he had seen of Foggy so far was nothing if not easy-going, but Matt found he was continuously reminding himself he had known this man for all of a day, if that. It was distressing how many times he needed to be reminded; a clear indication he was not in his right mind.

"You probably don't realize how bad this is, so I'm going to try to put this in terms you can understand. Someone used you as their personal chew toy. You are ripped and torn in places humans are not meant to be ripped or torn, and if your guts are stuffing then-"

"That's gross, Claire!"

Claire pulled a little too hard and Matt barely restrained himself from knocking her forcefully away. He had known Foggy was lingering in the living room, the coffee pot bubbling merrily in the kitchen, prepared in record time, but Matt forgot sometimes he was not the only man with sharp hearing. Especially since most of the time his partners seemed all but deaf in comparison.

"Sorry." She brushed a soothing finger along the edge of the wound, masking one sensation with another. If nothing else he appreciated the effort.

"I'm working, Foggy!"

Matt very deliberately did not wince at the shout; it had the ring of long familiarity to it. He got the sense they had gone through this before to the point that it had become old hat.

He entertained himself with the thought of Foggy blithely collecting injured people to drop in Claire's capable hands like a child that couldn't resist feeding the stray that had followed him home. His snort of amusement turned into a huff of annoyance. If this was habit then it was no surprise Foggy was attracted to a woman that by his admission was already deep in hot water; he couldn't even blame it on Claire for dragging Foggy down with her. Not when Foggy was such a willing accomplice.

"As I was saying, stay down. Just for another day or two."

Matt hummed his reluctant agreement, wondering if Foggy's patience could be strained that long.

"Foggy won't mind, trust me." Long-suffering patience mingled with resignation in her tone. He heard a half dozen untold stories in her heavy sigh and wondered again at what stroke of fate had made him collapse where he had.

Matt didn't trust anything so benign as coincidence. The Russians and their confederates had been so near to this place, and with Foggy digging up bones in Landman and Zack's files-

Fisk needed to know this.

"That looks like a deep thought." Claire paused, and he could feel the way her attention shifted away from the injury to his face. "What did you say you did for a living again?"

Foggy pushed through the door, coffee mugs in either hand, sparing him the necessity of answering. "Coffee? I have a little something in the fridge if you want to try an Irish breakfast."

Claire hesitated a bare second, reluctant to look away from him, but fatigue won out in the end.

"Matt, coffee?"

"No coffee. No caffeine at all. No alcohol either, Nelson. Bed rest, light meals, lots of water."

"Well, I mean, whiskey is the water of life…" He trailed off as Claire shifted ominously, "But we'll stick with conventional water for a couple days."

"I'll drop by Thursday to check in. Call if you need me before then."

Matt knew the comment was directed toward him. Foggy knew it too if his stillness was anything to go by. His chipper voice broke the tension before Matt felt the need to, "Will do. Shall we take our coffee outside and let him sleep?"

The vowels were exaggerated, the wrong syllables stressed. They were certainly going to be talking about him, but Matt found he truly was too damn tired to care.

He allowed himself to drift as Claire put the final touches on her work. By the time she closed the door, he was sleeping more deeply than he had in months.

 

 

"What do you think?" Even outside in the hall, Foggy was careful to keep his voice down. It hadn't escaped his notice how keenly Matt seemed to listen to everything, always with that minute tilt of his head, and a perfectly neutral expression that said the whole of his attention was focused on what he heard.

Claire responded to the urgency of his tone in like manner, face contorting with distaste. "I think you just let trouble in by the front door. Don't you have a contact at the station? Call the police and let them take it from here."

"Yes, officers, here is the man I found dying in an alley a couple days ago. As you can see, I've patched him up and didn't even bother reporting it. No need to thank me, really."

"Maybe you should have thought of that conversation before you called me." Claire dug her fingers into her temples, doubtless warding off another headache he'd brought on. "Look, Foggy, he didn't get those scars from sitting at a desk too long. He wasn't mugged, that was nothing short of attempted murder, and some of those cuts- he did some damage of his own."

Foggy's breath left him on a sigh. It was everything he had considered himself, but hearing it from Claire made it seem that much more pressing. "Well I'm not going to turn him out, I just wondered if maybe you didn't have an idea where he came from."

"I don't know. No tattoos or identifiable markings, but he's working for someone. God, Foggy, promise me you won't get yourself hurt."

"Promise. I'm not taking risks-"

An incredulous snort cut him off, a humorless smile flitting across Claire's lips.

"And I'll call if anything changes." He wasn't suicidal, but Matt Murdock wouldn't be anyone's idea of dangerous for days yet, no matter what Claire thought.

Claire turned to go, mincing down the stairs with uncharacteristic reluctance. She turned back at the first landing, shooting him a final, lingering glance that said she was desperately hoping he had changed his mind. Foggy waved pleasantly, mind already back inside the apartment, fretting over his guest and what sort of arrangements he would need to make to keep up with his work.

 

* * *

 

 

For the tenth time in an hour, Wesley glanced at his phone, cursing softly when he saw the screen was still ominously dark. At this rate, it was bound to become a nervous tic.

Murdock had never been out of contact so long before. Punctuality was not one of his redeeming qualities, but over forty-eight hours had passed since his last message. It was an unprecedented lapse, and one Wesley feared might mean his loss. To say that his employer was on edge would be a gross understatement of the facts, and with no way to confirm Murdock's whereabouts without alerting Anatoly to their work, Wesley was certain all the aspirin in the world couldn't cure the headache he felt building in his temples.

He slipped quietly into the bright room, navigating his careful way past the wealthy and famous. Fisk did not care for these functions, too aware of what these parasites were doing to his city to ever relax in their company. Still, he had demanded a report nearly an hour past, and Wesley did not have the news he was hoping for.

 

Wilson Fisk had tucked himself neatly away in a corner, a nearly full glass of white wine in hand and a thin veneer of calm resting over his features. The forbidding scowl lessened somewhat at Wesley's approach, though the lines of worry etched on his brow grew deeper when he noticed the lack of any relief in his assistant's eyes. Matt Murdock was one of Fisk's chosen, among the very few men he allowed the intimacy of his name and home. They had both clawed their way up from the bottom of a very steep ladder, and both were prepared to pay the price for staying on top. It had fostered a curious respect between them that sometimes encroached on affection.

"No news?" Fisk murmured, grip tightening on the glass until Wesley feared it might shatter under the stress.

"None, but perhaps that is for the best."

Fisk nodded his understanding, but he looked no more at ease than he had a moment ago. "Do you think so?"

"I can't be certain, but if he were dead I think we would have been duly informed. That we do not have a corpse suggests there is a chance he's still alive."

"Have you checked the safe houses?"

"Of course. If anyone so much as steps through the front door, I will be notified."

"And the hospitals?"

"Every one within a twenty mile radius of his last reported whereabouts has been checked. If he's admitted, I will know."

Fisk's sigh was more aggravation than resignation, but he nodded his understanding. "Then we have done everything. Now we wait."

Wesley nodded, turning to take his leave only to be stopped by the heavy weight of a hand on his shoulder. He turned, masking his surprise with a mute question.

"Be careful not to go anywhere alone. Assuming he was successful, there may be consequences."

"Of course." At last Fisk's hand dropped, and Wesley hurried from the room fast as his feet could take him, checking the damned cell once more for anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I thought I had posted this chapter. Exam brain. My apologies, I am the _worst_.
> 
> This chapter has been edited a few times now, but with 9500 words I'm sure there are still mistakes somewhere. If you spot any, please let me know!
> 
> The good news is, the wait for the next chap will be substantially shorter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt knows he should leave, but he stays.

Whatever pills Claire had given him certainly did their job, a little too well in Matt's informed opinion. The third day of his confinement found him drowsing in bed, so dizzy and fatigued he had even accepted Foggy's help sitting up and fallen asleep halfway through a slice of toast with egg. He had woken several hours later to the sound of a one-sided conversation. Shaking off the last vestige of sleep Matt focused on the voice, not even straining to hear Foggy's uncharacteristically urgent whisper.

"Yes, I know, but-" Foggy cut off with a hacking cough, "I think I'm contagious. You really shouldn't visit, not for a couple days."

Even his hearing couldn't pick up the voice on the other end of the line, but Matt gathered the response was unsympathetic if Foggy's huff of indignation was anything to go by. "Of course not. I wouldn't skip out on you." A well-timed wheeze, "But you might as well take the day off. Maybe tomorrow too. I'll call later and let you know."

If Matt didn't know better, he would have thought Foggy was in imminent danger of hacking up a lung. As it was, he had to bury his face half in the pillow to muffle a hoarse laugh. It wasn't funny, not really. In fact it was the perfect embodiment of everything wrong with his current situation, but Franklin Nelson had clearly missed his call to the acting profession.

"I'll try. Don't go too wild, I might need you in the office tomorrow morning." A strained chuckle, "All right, bye."

Matt didn't even have time to play dead before Foggy pushed back into the room, "Hey, you're awake. That's great because it's just about time for your second dose."

"I don't need them."

"Claire said you probably would for the next couple days. The first dose might not have worn off completely, but you're going to regret it later if you don't take the second. Trust me, I know."

Matt desperately wanted to know the story behind that audible wince, but he could almost feel Foggy shying away from the memory. Whatever it was he obviously regretted bringing it up, meaning a complete stranger would be the last man he confided in. Not that it was any of Matt's business anyway. Not that it bothered him at all.

"I suggest taking it with milk, personally. It washes the bitterness down."

"Please." That word was coming to his lips far easier now; Matt was surprised at how quickly he was taking to this mockery of domesticity. Enjoying it even.

He waited until Foggy had left the room before carefully slipping the pills under the mattress liner. He needed to be gone by tomorrow; this domestic illusion was far too tempting, and he had no doubt Wesley was already tearing the city apart looking for him. Matt had already decided he couldn't be found here. If he vanished in the middle of the night Foggy could go back to work, fret for a few days maybe but console himself that he had done his best and move on. Matt would always be grateful for his exceedingly brief respite; it was the first of its kind he'd ever had, and probably the last.

"You took those dry? Hardcore." Foggy set the glass down on the bedside table with a clink, not bothering with a coaster. Fisk would never have allowed the imperfection of warped wood in his tidy domain. Matt had always enjoyed running his fingers along lacquered and laminated surfaces, artificially smooth. He had taken a similar delight in Foggy's apartment too, battered and lived in as it was Matt could feel the history of it against his skin wherever his fingers touched.

He dutifully downed the milk, pretending relief.

"Is there anything else I can do? I could bring in the stereo if you want. I guess you're probably bored out of your mind."

Matt nearly smiled at the sheepish tone. He should have been bored, would have been anywhere but here. As it was he had passed the day in a light doze with half an ear tuned to Foggy's quiet muttering and the occasional static of the kitchen radio. He had learned it was cold but sunny outside, there was a fender-bender on 43rd, and that Foggy thought the tax code was bullshit. He had also learned that Foggy had a soft spot for the neighbor's toy poodle, took his coffee with double sugar, no milk and always checked that Matt was sleeping soundly before he watched any reality TV.

Personally, Matt thought that explained a lot about the enigma that was Foggy Nelson.

"No, I don't want to disturb your work."

And it would. Foggy was never content merely to listen to the radio, he sang along to every catchy tune, responded to the hosts and cheerfully commented on every call that came in. Not that it sounded like Foggy's office had enough work to be buried in it, which was a mystery in itself. He was personable enough, friendly and cheerful, obviously concerned for anyone under the sun if he could drag someone half-dead into his apartment and spend his weekdays nursing them attentively. More than that, everyone he spoke with seemed to owe him a debt of some kind, no matter how much Foggy brushed off their offers of help or payment.

He would have loved to get an idea of Foggy's ledgers, tallying expenditure and income until he found a reason for a Columbia-educated lawyer to fall on hard times. At his best guess, too much charity might mean better sleep, but it wouldn't put food on the table.

"Are you still with me?"

Matt hummed noncommittally, unsure of what Foggy had said but reasonably certain it didn't require an answer.

"Good, then prepare to earn your keep."

Matt perked up at that, equal parts confused and excited. The prospect of sleeping the rest of the day away was not an appealing one, but even worse was the idea of lying in bed eavesdropping on his host until he could finally take his leave. Foggy strode out of the room, his quick steps betraying eagerness; Matt regretted that he had zoned out so long.

When Foggy came in again he was moving noticeably slower, and Matt could hear whatever he was carrying shifting about in his arms. A soft thud and muffled profanity caught his ear, though he bit back a smile in time to keep Foggy from seeing it. The man had a knack for creative profanity. Even after all his years in the seedier parts of Hell's Kitchen, Matt hadn't heard some of those combinations before.

"Stub your toe?" He shouldn't make a habit of speaking with him, Matt knew, but there was just something irresistible about the implied invitation.

"I think I broke it." Foggy muttered, dropping his armful to land with a heavy thump on the bed. Books. Thick, durably-bound books. Text books? Or the abominable tax code?

"I don't think so." In fact, he knew not, but explaining that to Foggy would also mean explaining there was nowhere within three floors he could go without Matt hearing him loud and clear. That wasn't the kind of secret he wanted getting out yet; what if Foggy stopped muttering his charming monologues?

"Well, I'm not paying the bill to find out who's right. Don't tell Claire if she comes by either. She told me this would happen if I didn't move that blasted table and I don't want her thinking she's right all the time."

"Is she?"

"She thinks so, and I charge for every argument I start so we'll never know for sure."

Matt snorted, more a huff of air than an actual laugh, but he could practically feel Foggy radiating smugness at getting anything other than silence out of his patient.

"I hope those aren't for me." Sometimes even Wesley forgot that he was blind so well did Matt "see", but Foggy's books were certainly beyond him.

"Nope, all mine." There was a tinge of despair in the words. "I'm tearing my hair out with that shitty laptop, so I'm going old school this afternoon."

Matt waited patiently, increasingly mystified by whatever this could have to do with him.

"But I'm suffering and misery loves company. So I hereby appoint you to be my captive audience."

Apparently his restlessness had not gone unremarked. Matt wondered if he had given himself away somehow, if Foggy had noticed how very awake and aware he was despite supposedly being on painkillers. A niggling feeling told Matt this was an intervention of a sorts. If he would not take his medicine, then he could at least be lulled to sleep.

"All right."

Surprisingly, it was. He even nearly smiled, gave into the impulse when Foggy sucked in a breath. He had been expecting an argument then, and had come prepared. Matt wondered if he was disappointed at how easily the battle had been won.

"Fine." Foggy murmured, the hint of a sigh in the word. Yes, definitely disappointed.

He began to read, pausing every so often to punctuate a sentence with a curse or a blessing, scribbling notes in the notebook he kept at his elbow. Matt, for his part, found the only thing keeping him awake was the thought of missing any part of Foggy's dramatic declaration. He had spent most of his waking hours wondering what sort of man would go this far for a stranger, and every minute he spent in Foggy's company like this was a step closer to an answer.

 

 

Matt jolted awake, unsure of when he had lost the battle and surrendered to sleep. It had to have been awhile. He could feel Foggy beside him, the warmth that radiated from his closeness, feel the dip in the bed where he had propped his legs when he joined his guest in a nap. Tentatively Matt reached out, feeling for the stripe of sunlight that always fell across the far side of the bed in the late afternoon. Yes, there it was. He'd been out for at least a couple hours then.

As to Foggy… when Matt had dozed off, he had been whistling contentedly to himself, pleased over something he had found and declined to share. He shifted, careful not to disturb Foggy's perch. Neither one of them had rested easily the past couple nights, and he did feel guilty for it. If Foggy had taken his own bed at least one of them might have been comfortable.

The sooner he left the sooner Foggy would have the bed back; he would be safer too.

Matt rolled over, gritting his teeth at the tearing pain where sutures pulled. He wasn't well enough for this, but Wesley would see to his needs as soon as he was back at Fisk's side. He paused a few seconds to catch his breath before inching a little farther toward the opposite edge of the bed. Between managing his pain and trying not to wake his host, it was harder than he expected.

His feet touched the ground around the same time Foggy woke.

"Hm?" A yawn, his legs trembled as he stretched. "Leaving without even a goodbye? I'm a little hurt."

Matt opened his mouth to give an excuse, but Foggy cut him off, "But not as much as you, I bet."

Matt chuckled and winced because it was true, his stomach was churning with nausea at the thought of taking the stairs down.

"Look, you're not my prisoner." Foggy trailed off, and Matt could imagine him running through a mental checklist before he repeated "You're not my prisoner, but Claire will want to check on you before you go, and honestly I don't think you're ready to walk out of here."

"I'm fine." Matt pushed himself up, shuffling toward the door, "Check under your mattress liner, I left a couple pills there."

"Dammit." Foggy rooted around, finding the pain pills and sighing to himself. "They're not poison, what the hell do you have against people trying to help you anyway?" He rose to trail behind his guest, and Matt could feel his hands hovering a few inches from him, ready to catch his weight if he fell.

It was starting to feel like a 'when'.

"What the hell is your deal with trying to help people anyway?" Matt countered, a little amused despite himself. A little frustrated if he was honest with himself.

"I am really trying not to antagonize a wounded man, but you are not making it easy." Foggy murmured.

Matt reached out for the wall, trailing a steadying hand along it.

"The elevator might get you downstairs, but where are you going to go after that, huh? Are you just going to pop into a clinic after begging me not to call an ambulance? Wait for someone to report your erratic behavior and get the police to take you to the hospital? Have you thought this out at all?"

He hadn't. Not really. His footsteps faltered. "I have friends."

Colleagues he had to get back to, which meant calling them, which meant finding a phone that wouldn't lead them to this building, meaning he'd have to walk a fair distance when even this casual stroll from bedroom to door had sapped his strength.

"You have friends you didn't want me to call." Foggy said skeptically. "Two more days, forty-eight hours. I'm not used to a roommate either, but can't you suck it up that long?"

Matt huffed, "Wouldn't it be easier to call me a taxi and let me go?"

"It's cute how you assume I can pay for a taxi, and that I'll be able to sleep after unleashing you like this without a keeper."

"I'll send you a postcard." They were bantering; when had that happened? He hadn't felt the slim smile creep across his face, but it was there.

Foggy sensed that he had won. Matt didn't fight when he reached out to take an arm and twine it around his own; he leaned into Foggy's weight instead, trusting him to guide them. "Don't hit the table."

"I swear you and Claire would be best friends if you gave her half a chance."

 

* * *

 

 

Foggy left him alone that evening, and Matt despaired at how easily he had brushed off any protests. "No offense, but you're not in any condition to loot the place and we have to eat."

Matt had acerbically reminded him that the only reason he had a guest was because a man had been shot near his building. Foggy had shrugged it off while he gathered his keys and a couple canvas bags. "I'll be back in a hour or so. My cell's on the table, just hit the screen to call Claire."

He hadn't been gone twenty minutes when Matt realized he was listening for him at the door like a faithful hound. Disgusted, he leaned farther back into his pillow and tried to sink into a sleep again. Without the medicine in his system or the lulling sounds of Foggy going about his day sleep proved elusive. Just when he had finally managed to sink into a light doze, the door clicked open again.

Matt was disturbed that he had been distracted enough not to head Foggy jogging up the stairs. He was stepping softly, inching around the floorboard near the door that creaked.

"I'm awake." Matt called, and the bags Foggy was carrying immediately thunked to the floor.

"Thank God. I could not have carried that a step farther." He began rummaging through the bags. Matt heard the clink of glass, a lot of the dull sound of cardboard- TV dinners, if he had his guess. Finally Foggy found whatever it was he was looking for and hurried into the room.

"I figure you're getting tired of the sound of my voice."

Not by a long shot, but Matt wasn't about to admit it.

"So I bought an audiobook. Looks like fantasy-"

Matt didn't pull a face, but it was a near thing.

"Okay, that answers that question. Sci-fi man? Mystery? I bet you're mystery."

"Anyone ever told you to play poker?" He was devilishly good at reading even fleeting expressions, but then maybe that came with the profession.

"Can't. I don't have the face for it." A heavy sigh. "Bet I'd be great at roulette though." His laugh told Matt it was a private joke. Foggy seemed to have dozens of them, and each time he shared one it tricked Matt into thinking they were in on it together. He enjoyed the feeling, even as he recognized it for an illusion.

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Sci-fi man? Mystery?" Matt parroted.

"Little bit of everything, I guess."

It took Matt a minute to work out that he was disappointed.

"If I actually read anything. Which I don't think I've done since I graduated."

 _Better_.

"You're sure about not taking your pills? You still look a little pale-"

"Just the antibiotics." Matt insisted, setting his jaw in a way that brooked no argument.

He knew Foggy had correctly interpreted the expression, and that he was deliberately ignoring it.

"All right. If I may make a counterpoint?"

"No."

"Shouldn't have asked." The CD clicked neatly into the player, and Foggy snapped the lid shut with just a hint of temper.

He enjoyed their back-and-forth, enjoyed the strange camaraderie they had managed to foster in a handful of days. If anyone had asked he would have said it felt like a perpetual lazy summer, lying around with nothing better to do than eat, sleep and occasionally pester his host for company and entertainment. Foggy always obliged.

That was exactly why he needed to get the hell out, and why he didn't want to.

Foggy tapped the CD player a few times, cursing it under his breath; with a click the track finally started.

"I've got some calls to make, but I'm going to toss in a couple TV dinners. Got a preference for beef or chicken?"

"Surprise me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoooly Cow. I know it's been awhile. Here's a fluff chapter because this relationship needs tinder if it's going to burn.
> 
> We'll get back to plot next chapter, :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt knows when he has worn out a welcome.

When Matt woke that morning he knew it was time to leave.

Foggy's alarm was beeping in the living room, shrill and sharp. Matt forced his breathing to even out; if he had mentioned it to Foggy he knew the alarm wouldn't have gone off again, but every morning without fail it woke him up in a near panic. Which was precisely why he didn't mention it. Foggy hit snooze twice, rolling uncomfortably on the couch to snatch another five minutes before the infernal thing went off again.

After the second time he finally pushed himself up, sitting on the edge of the couch while he got his bearings. Matt grinned, hearing his soft snore when he managed to doze off a few seconds more. Once he was off the pain medication, sleeping through Foggy's snores had been out of the question for a couple nights. Somehow though he had gotten used to it, even found it weirdly endearing.

Foggy made his way to the room, stubbing his toe on the table again and muffling a sharp "Mother fucker," while he hopped the rest of the way. The laugh escaped him before he could clamp his mouth shut on it.

"You're in a good mood this morning." Foggy gritted, still fighting the impulse to throw every profanity he knew at the blasted table. "Glad I could be of service."

"If you would just move the table-"

"We've been over this: the table has always been there, it will always be there; this is my kingdom and it is not a democracy, okay? It's a benevolent dictatorship."

Matt snorted. Even half-awake Foggy was always prepared for a little verbal sparring. Banter and good-humored teasing had become a morning routine for them; that was what stuck with Matt. He had stayed long enough to develop a routine, one that wove Foggy into the daily pattern of his life so seamlessly he knew it would take time to adjust to being alone again.

"Can I move the sheet?"

"Sure." It was a pro forma question now, but Foggy was always careful with him. He asked Matt whether he could touch and prod, if he was uncomfortable, talked him through everything he was doing while he changed the bandage each morning and night. Claire had picked up the habit once she noticed how much more relaxed Matt looked, though she still grumbled as she worked about his inability to sit still for longer than five minutes.

They were good people, his keepers. Sometime in the last week or so he had decided Fisk didn't need to know about Claire at all. And Foggy? Matt wasn't going to be the one to deliver him to the chopping block, but he knew himself better than to think he was going to stay away.

"I've gotta peel the tape off."

The basin on the bedside table was there just for that purpose, Matt heard the washcloth splashing in water before the coolness of it touched his skin, making his muscles leap with tension.

"Sorry, is it cold?"

"No. Lukewarm."

"Hm. All right, I'm just gonna spread this on…" Foggy trailed off, butterfly light touches gliding over Matt's skin. It still hurt, but it stung a little less every day. "And replace the gauze. It looks good, I think. I mean obviously Claire knows best, but it's not as red any more."

"Good." The word came out on a wistful sigh; that meant he was ready to leave. He had been for a couple days, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to leave while Foggy was clearly trying so hard to save him from more than his current wounds.

Over dinner last night they had talked, a little about Karen, Claire, family, mobsters and criminal conspiracy, the mistakes people made and the long road uphill to fixing them. Mostly Foggy had talked and Matt had hung on every word and marveled that the most trusting man he had ever met had crossed swords with nearly every scumbag in the city Matt dealt with on a regular basis and yet he was still happy and breathing with two good friends to show for his efforts.

"You have a hero complex." Matt had said wryly, scooping up more macaroni. He shouldn't have been enjoying it as much as he was, but it had been a go-to meal when he was a kid and Matt was on his third serving of good memories.

"Maybe a little bit." Foggy conceded with a shrug Matt could hear. "But this city could use a few more suckers, right?"

"Is that why you left Landman and Zack? There was good money there."

"I do miss the paychecks." Foggy sighed, and Matt sensed he was looking around his apartment with its worn floors and cracked linoleum, the furniture a couple generations out of date. "But it's my alarm that wakes me up every morning and I never have to shower just to scrub the slime off. It's worth the pay cut."

Their conversation had drifted elsewhere after that, but Matt had sensed the implicit offer in the words: there was a way out if he was willing to pay the price. Foggy had no clue the kind of debts he was carrying though, and Matt didn't want to frighten him. Or send him off on another crusade, which sounded more likely judging from his history.

Matt wasn't willing to abandon the quest he had set himself on yet, and Foggy would never understand it. Selfishly, Matt wanted to keep him. Return to Fisk, resume his duties, but keep this bright corner of the world for himself. He could spend weekends on Foggy's ancient couch, listening to whatever was on TV and the comments Foggy would have to add to it. They could eat together, drink and flit effortlessly through subjects Matt had never talked about with anyone else. Even bask in a few comfortable silences, the sort Matt had heard Fisk and Wesley sharing in but never felt a part of himself.

There was no way to be two men at once, and that's exactly what his treacherous mind was suggesting.

"Need a shower today?"

"I can manage."

"You're sure? I'm out in-" Foggy reached for the other alarm on the bedside table. "Ha. I'm out five minutes ago."

He stood and rushed to his closet, tossing a shirt, tie and jacket onto the bed. "Karen's gonna kill me." Pants followed. Matt heard the frenzied rustling as he dressed, but he also smelled the faint sourness of the alley clinging to Foggy's clothes.

"You didn't have those dry-cleaned."

"Shit." He sniffed, tossing the jacket aside disgustedly. "Whatever. It's casual Friday, I don't need a suit."

"Friday?"

"Uuuum." The calendar fluttered, "Yep. Friday. Hey, I'm off again tomorrow. Want to test your legs outside? The milk's turned and we're almost out of ketchup."

"I'd like that."

Foggy must have caught his tone; he paused to stare at Matt for a long minute. "You'll be here when I get back, right?"

Matt smiled, disarming, self-deprecating. "I don't think I could make it to the elevator."

"Is that a yes or a no?"

"Yes," Matt lied easily.

Foggy opened his mouth several times, his instinct warning him something was off. Ultimately he decided not to press; Matt could be cagey and he often kept his own council, but he was a grown man and no kind of prisoner. It wasn't his place.

He still lingered in the doorway, trying to find something to say that would make the uneasiness in his gut go away. "Right. I'll see you then."

"Be careful."

"Always."

 

 

Several times Foggy almost turned back. Superstition reared its ugly head when he reached the second crosswalk; first a stop sign then a light out, if the universe was talking to anyone it had to be him. He laughed off the feeling, dashing across the road and wincing as a driver locked up his breaks to slam on the horn. He waved placatingly, not checking to see how many fingers the driver waved in return.

Trying to get a solo practice off the ground was no mean feat. He shouldn't have been able to afford even a day out of the office, let alone nearly a week. Karen was a Godsend, forwarding calls to her cell and soothing a few ruffled feathers, scheduling intake interviews far enough out that it sounded like they had a decent-sized client pool.

He had felt even worse when she welcomed him back with open arms and sympathy. "Had to be a hell of a cold to knock you off your feet. Are you sure you're fine? You look pale."

"Just tired and bored out of my mind. Please tell me I have mountains of paperwork to do."

"Actually…"

Okay so it hadn't been mountains, but there had been a respectable pile of new folders on his desk, all color-coded according to Karen's system and many of them new clients. They wouldn't be challenging any of New York's biggest firms yet, but their work was paying off. Maybe they could actually keep something for themselves by the end of the year. Hell, maybe if he was careful he could surprise Karen with a Christmas bonus. It was all she had asked for last year and heaven knew she deserved it.

"Careful, Foggy." Optimism, while one of his most charming traits, was also his weakness Foggy knew.

Which was why lunch time found him absently chewing a handful of gum from the stash he kept in the bottom drawer wondering if he had time to run back to his apartment and check on Matt.

He had been back to work for a few days, leaving his phone with Matt, the speed dial set to the office phone. Every evening Matt had still been there when he came home, sometimes listening to the CDs Foggy kept beside the player, sometimes shuffling and re-shuffling the deck of playing cards he had found in the hall tree.

Matt was getting restless, and it was rubbing off on him because Foggy knew it would only be a matter of time before he moved on.

Short of tying him down or calling the police Foggy didn't see how he could keep him from leaving. So many times he had quietly hinted that he was ready and willing to help if needed, and every time Matt had gently rebuffed his offers or pretended not to hear them. Foggy saw the writing on the wall, he just wasn't sure he was ready to come back to an empty home tonight.

"I'm taking my lunch." Karen popped her head in, zeroing in on his barren desk with its complete lack of any food. "You could join me."

"No thanks, I'm not hungry." Foggy was reasonably sure he could have eaten the desk, hair and upholstery and still had room for dessert.

Karen knew it too from the way she frowned at him. "Want me to bring something back?"

"Just yourself."

Karen leaned against the doorframe and Foggy's stomach sank. "What's wrong?"

"I'm tired and cranky. Nothing's wrong."

Karen leaned farther into his office, narrowing her eyes at him threateningly. "I'm going to grab some pizza and ask again later. Try to lie a little more convincingly next time."

Having kept a few secrets of her own, Karen was marvelously good at figuring out when he didn't want to be pressed; he would have to make the Christmas bonus work. "Will do."

It was even harder to focus once she left. The office was so quiet he could hear the neighbors, and his stapler wasn't the most scintillating conversational partner, though if it could talk it could have spouted profanity in at least three languages. His foot tapped a tattoo against the floor, thumping and creaking; it annoyed the hell out of him but he couldn't stop.

His office was too cold, the lobby was too warm, the building was too quiet and the neighbors too loud. Three times he shoved his chair away from his desk before finally compromising and pushing out one final time to go to the office phone and dial his number.

" _The number you have reached_ -"

_Dammit._

Ten minutes and he tried again, but again after five rings the answering machine picked up. He hung up the phone, shoulders straightening as though he had shed a heavy weight. Matt was gone and it should have been a comforting thought. He could have his bed back, could talk to himself and not worry about hearing an answer back. Groceries were going to be a lot cheaper not having to worry about feeding an invalid and Claire was going to sleep better knowing he was sleeping alone at last.

Foggy hoped he had taken more than just his borrowed clothes along, worried that he might have left the antibiotics by the kitchen sink. He worried about where Matt was going and whomever would be waiting for him; he'd been in an unholy hurry to leave and if it wasn't friends he was anxious to get back to…

It was Foggy's nature to worry and he did it well.

 

 

The apartment was deathly still when he returned, like it had been abandoned for weeks instead of a few hours. Foggy tossed his briefcase onto the couch, making for his room though he knew what he would find.

The sheets had been bundled up and set atop the mattress, his phone lay on the table where he had left it. There were a couple new stains on the mattress, he noted dully. The rust-red of blood. He left the radio off while he gathered everything up, making the trek down to the basement to toss it in the washer and praying against hope the smell coming out of it wasn't mold. For four bucks a load he wanted his sheets clean, at least.

His coat was missing too, Foggy noticed. His pants, a shirt. Tainted by the muck of the alley, Foggy wondered what Matt would do with it. It wasn't his problem any more though.

He tried turning the TV on once he'd finished, but no matter how hard he smashed the buttons it didn't respond. He was just too tired to get up and try to charm the buttons into working either. Silence it was then. The words in his books blurred in front of his eyes, entire paragraphs skipped or pages he had read again and again but still couldn't say what they had been about.

Obviously he wasn't going to accomplish anything worth boasting about tonight. Bed. He would wake tomorrow and go on with his life content in the knowledge that he had done everything in his power, whatever the malicious voice in his head whispered otherwise. Except his sheets still weren't dry when he checked and their replacements were ripped in so many places even Foggy's grammy wouldn't have tried to patch them.

So for the final time he took the couch and sunk immediately into sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Matt knew Hell's Kitchen better than most of the rats, definitely better than most of its residents. It took him no time at all to find one of the safe houses Wesley had set up for their use. It took Wesley even less time to show up on the doorstep, heart pounding with a rush of exhilaration and dread.

He waited until Matt had stepped out of the way before gliding inside, ever the gentleman. "Mr. Fisk will be here soon."

Matt nodded and limped back to the plush chair near the window where he had spent most of the afternoon. His skin burned like fire beneath the bandage and his walk had left him breathless and tired. How was he supposed to get back on his feet after so long spent lazing around?

"Where have you been?" Right to business, ever the professional.

"The good Samaritan found me." Matt said with a mischievous smirk he knew Wesley loathed.

"We were starting to think we wouldn't find your body. Mr. Fisk was preparing to have anything larger than a puddle dragged."

"Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated." Foggy had rubbed off on him more than he had ever anticipated; then again, he had always had a special fondness for needling Wesley.

"You found a sense of humor too." Wesley quipped drily, "I take it your good Samaritan was adequately compensated?"

Matt's teeth clicked shut tellingly. He needed to speak to Fisk before he said anything to Wesley; the man's devotion to his cause verged on the fanatical, and ever efficient he would see no reason to leave someone like Foggy alive if there was even the sliver of a chance he knew anything about Matt.

Fisk might be persuaded though; he was more likely to take a risk, more likely to repay a debt in kind than his faithful shadow.

"Which name did you use?" Wesley found the vulnerability with unerring accuracy. In another life he could have been a decent attorney himself.

"Mine." Matt admitted, listening for the swift, indrawn breath.

The doorbell chimed while Wesley was still deciding how to proceed.

"Are you going to get it?" Matt murmured, shifting his weight to take some of the pressure off his wound. Wesley rose and answered the door obligingly. No need to announce who it was, Matt had recognized his step on the walkway.

"Matthew." Fisk's voice was warm and filled with relief. He had never cared for Matt in the same way he did Wesley, but they had been together long enough that even the worst of enemies would have learned to reconcile. "I was beginning to suspect the worst. Welcome home."

Even knowing he was just another piece in Fisk's endless game, knowing that he was expendable and little more than a favored employee Matt couldn't help warming at the words. "Home" was an attractive word to a man that hadn't really had one since he had grown up. The effect would have been even more potent if he hadn't spent a little over a week in Foggy's home, which already felt like more than a word to him.

"It is good to be back." Matt offered insincerely. His feet had dragged all the way here and every minor setback had turned into an excuse to almost turn back and stay another day, another night, another week and month.

Almost, but if he had slighted Fisk he would have lost yet another home.

"You are hurt." Fisk's hands clenched, working open and closed. His teeth were grinding softly though he didn't notice. Wilson Fisk had a black temper, and the first among its hair triggers was any harm done to his people.

"I'm healing well." Matt offered, licking his teeth as he tried to find the right words to introduce Foggy-

"Mr. Murdock has a good samaritan to thank for that." Wesley added, predictably ruining Matt's only chance of controlling the playing field. He had been prepared for it though after years of managing both Wesley's and Fisk's relentless need to control.

"Oh?"

"Franklin Nelson. The attorney from Landman and Zack." The tension in the room snapped taut, but Matt forged ahead. How the hell would he rescue Foggy if this went wrong? He couldn't afford to think about it, couldn't afford for it to go anything less than perfectly. "I spent a lot of time with him, a lot of time talking about our mutual acquaintances."

_You didn't clean up after yourself._ He could practically feel the thought drifting to him from Wesley's corner of the room. Fisk was more cautious, for once.

"Did you thank Mr. Nelson for his hospitality?" Fisk's voice rumbled mildly. Matt knew better than to let down his guard.

"No. I have a suit hanging in the hall closet. I was hoping you could have something similar made for me to deliver when I've recovered. Better material, inseam a little farther down and narrow the shoulders. Shorten the sleeves a quarter inch."

Silence. Then raucous laughter. "Not the gift I was expecting, Murdock-"

Fisk trailed off when he noticed the ghost of a smile touching Matt's lips. A little secretive, a bit delighted. It was an expression he hadn't seen in years, but it came back effortlessly. "Nevertheless, I'd appreciate your help. I was a very demanding guest, and Foggy was a gracious host."

He nearly swallowed his tongue when he noticed the slip. His fingers tensed in the arm of the chair, kneading like a cat's while he waited for Fisk's response.

"Foggy?" Wesley murmured thoughtfully, and Matt liked it not at all.

"Perhaps money wasn't the right incentive. Should we have sent you to Nelson first, Mattie?"

The old nickname hit him like a punch in the gut, but Matt gradually relaxed anyway. If Fisk was amused to joke then they were out of dangerous depths.

"Always save the best for last." Matt returned, basking in Wesley's fixed stare that he felt all over his face. Let him wonder what devil had possessed Matt Murdock. Let them both wonder.

"I should grab the wine then, for a toast to the best." Fisk didn't even pause, gaining his feet and slipping out the door, leaving him alone with Wesley once more.

"What address shall I have the suit delivered to?"

"I'll take it myself, Wesley. When I've recovered." Matt repeated slowly, enunciating carefully. There was no love lost between them, but Wesley would sooner eat his own heart than sabotage any of Wilson Fisk's projects, and Matt had just handily assigned himself to one- namely the unconventional courtship of Foggy Nelson.

"Of course, Mr. Murdock."

That was the easy part out of the way. Now he would have to find a way to convince Foggy to let him back in to an apartment he had just escaped from. His gut told him that course wouldn't run near as smooth as his gambit today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, I know, but "soon" I said, and for once I was _right_ Woohoo!
> 
> Out from prologue, on to story!

**Author's Note:**

> As always, concrit is both lovely and appreciated!
> 
> (Yes, it has been awhile since this one updated, but I've been slowly chipping away at it and I'm hoping posting will remind me to work on it/actually post what I have)
> 
> Fic title is taken from Fall Out Boy's "I've Got a Dark Alley and a Bad Idea that Says You Should Shut Your Mouth"


End file.
